Mirror
by Silent-Vociferation
Summary: The little girl was the Dragonborn's mirror image. That fact was nothing new. Onmund and her head heard it dozens of times. But the uncomfortable feeling they both felt whenever someone told them so... that was very new.


This was one of the prompts for Fandom February. I had meant to do the others, but as my friend bestowed upon me Dragon Age, I soon became enraptured and lost my inspiration to finish out the month with my Onmund/Dovakhiin fics. But I know there has to be some Onmund fans out there, so I hope you enjoy this fanfic.

The Dovakhiin is left nameless so that you can pretend she's yours. For the most part. My portrayal of the Dovakhiin tends to have magical preferences.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Elder Scrolls series.

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"She's your mirror image."

Phrases like that were abundant wherever the Dragonborn, hero of Skyrim, went with her six-month-old child bouncing on her hip. People eagerly surrounded the Dragonborn, greeting her and thanking her for all she had done and then, the moment all the usual sayings were out of the way, the avalanche of baby observations came. Their eyes were the same, that was the Dovakhiin's nose, she was already holding herself up and rolling over and attempting to crawl, such a quick little learner like her mother. Her hair was the same color and texture with the same tendency to be an utter mess in the morning.

Little Mirabelle's father faded into the background the moment anyone saw the obvious physical likeness shared between mother and daughter.

By the time she was four Onmund had received more weird looks than he would have appreciated, strangers assuming he was kidnapping a child or perhaps a secret pedophile or a poor excuse of a babysitter simply because he was a man. No one thought that perhaps he was the father, the quick-to-spoil, overly protective, easily worried father. They spotted his wife with the dragon blood pulsing through her and instantly saw the resemblance in the little girl that ran before them.

"She really is your mirror image," Onmund conceded, trying not to reveal his disappointment after all these years. He knew she was his, knew his Dragonborn would never betray him, but he couldn't help but feel he hadn't really contributed past a short time in the bedroom.

The Dovakhiin watched him carefully after that statement. Onmund had always been so secretly upset by the repeated look-alike remarks that he almost failed to notice how negatively she responded to the words.

"Looks mean little."

"Even if your wife and daughter are the two most beautiful and tough looking girls you've ever known?" Onmund asked, eyes sparkling with sincerity.

"_There_!" With sudden enthusiasm and revelation in her voice she called out and pointed at his face.

Onmund stiffened, not sure what exactly was happen. "I'm… I'm sorry, what?"

"That sparkle! In your eye! Just like her!"

"Just like _who_?"

The Dragonborn grinned. "Our daughter."

He had nothing to say at first, simply opening and closing his mouth dumbly. "I… What? No, no, no, she's _your_ mirror-"

"Oh enough of that bullshit, Onmund. I don't care if she is the miniature reincarnation of my appearance down to each strand of hair on her head! People can look at her all they want, but it won't make a difference! We don't want a girl that people just _look_ at… Do we?"

Once again he was speechless. He had sensed that she wasn't happy with all the remarks about the similarities in her and her daughter's appearances, but this? He'd figured it was because she'd heard it before, not that it didn't mean anything to her at all.

"I want a girl that people _watch_ because they want to know what she'll do next, what'll she say, what she'll think! And if you ever _watch_ our daughter you'll see who she really is the mirror image of."

She was panting now, angrily glaring at him. He knew his daughter made the same face when she was angry, down to the wrinkling in her brow and the gritting of her teeth. The difference, however, was as the Dragonborn said. He was rarely angry, frustrated maybe, but he tended to let most things slide with toleration.

And Mirabelle was known among their friends as the most tolerant toddler around.

Unlike her mother, she was also fairly subtle in her opinions and three times as neat. All her toys were picked up and her clothes tossed into the washing basin without direction.

Organized. Reserved. These were all distinctly Onmund qualities.

"And let's not forget how often she trips over her own two feet," his wife reminded him with a chuckle as, in the courtyard outside, the four-year-old stumbled and barely caught herself on a nearby post.

"I'm not clumsy! I'm just-"

"Incapable of putting your feet where they need to go?" she supplied, thinking back to all those times her own boots whispered over rock and grass to surprise her target, only to have all her plans foiled by her lover as he fumbled and slid after her.

Onmund blushed, but his noncommittal sound in response was enough for her.

"She does hold a nasty grudge," he finally offered, recognizing in her his tendency to not forgive his family for how they treated his magical abilities. People who ripped her dresses and smacked her in the back of the head with mud pies were remembered with frightening accuracy. She didn't instantly retort, as her mother would, instead biding her time and exacting her revenge with deadly accuracy later. Onmund's style. The whole family was full of people you didn't want to anger, as any one of them could ensure that you never made the same mistake twice. It was just that where one dealt with the problem instantly accompanied with hellfire and poisonous words, her counterpart and child would subtly end the threat in a few weeks instead.

Mirabelle and Onmund took their time.

"But she's also sentimental," the Dovakhiin contributed, knowing of the carefully displayed line of crudely made dolls and toys, every handmade thing any important friend to the family had ever crafted for her.

Onmund blushed, not necessarily wanting to deny the fact, but at the same time thinking to all the things he kept because of it. He'd been married to the hero of Skyrim for seven years and still the thought of her finding the secret drawer where he kept everything, from the first ring she had enchanted for him to the head of an arrow that she had taken in his place, would be the death of him. She'd realize how soft he truly was. Lose respect for him, surely.

But the way she leaned against his shoulder then, a warm smile on her face as she watched their child run around the market place, told him that he was probably wrong.

No. No, he was right. She couldn't know about that drawer.

"Even if the people have done her wrong, she'll keep all the special things… like a family amulet," his wife murmured, glancing up at him and watching how his lips hesitantly curved into a sheepish smile. "Or a gold and sapphire ring I enchanted for you with a common soul gem eight years ago."

He stiffened. Shit. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you kept it all. Knowing you is like knowing our daughter to a tee. And vice versa. If she kept that hideous doll I made her at birth, you must have kept that awful enchanted piece of rubbish."

"It wasn't rubbish!" he insisted hotly, realizing too late that he had confirmed her suspicions with those three words. He had kept everything. "It was a gift from you. And anything from you is precious. So…"

His voice trailed off at the way she was beaming at him, eyes sparkling with something he had learned long ago to be the complete and utter adoration she always had for him.

"The world has blessed me with two incomprehensibly sweet people, just beneath my roof," she finally told him. Slowly, cautiously even after all these years, he cocked his head to one side and pressed his lips to her forehead.

Passionately, fiery even after all these years, she roughly turned him towards her and planted her lips against his.

She hated people telling her that their daughter looked just like her, as if she cared for such shallow things as appearances. She envied him because if their daughter was just like anyone, it was him with that personality she had fallen for.

"You know," he managed to murmur into their kiss, "maybe we're looking at this all wrong?"

"Oh?" she asked, pulling away.

"Maybe we should wait and see. It would be nice to have a girl who everyone watches, wondering what she'll do and say and think. But that can't be it."

Her face lit up at the suggestion and her lips curled into a grin. "How about we hope she becomes the girl that no one could hope to mirror?"

"I would settle for that."

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I have now done my part, contributing to the dismal amount of Onmund/Dovakhiin fanfiction. Reviews, critiques, and comments are much appreciated. Thank you very much for reading!

Sivo


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